


Times and Places

by JLMonroe1234



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Amnesia, Baz probably does too honestly, Depressed Simon Snow, M/M, Nightmares, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Post-Humdrum (Simon Snow), Post-Watford (Simon Snow), Protective Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Simon Snow Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Simon Snow Whump, Simon Snow suffers from occasional bouts of amnesia, Simon Snow's Wings and Tail, Temporary Amnesia, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Needs a Hug, Tyrannus Basilton “Baz” Pitch whump, Vampires, Watford (Simon Snow)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 14:42:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20931908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JLMonroe1234/pseuds/JLMonroe1234
Summary: “I’m scared,” he said quietly, “I’m scared and I’m lost and I’m here but I’m not and I don’t know where we are and holy fuck I can’t breathe, Baz-”“All right, Snow, stop for a moment. Snow. Snow. Simon, listen to me.”-Simon goes back, sometimes. Back to people that hurt him, or places that scarred him. Back to times when it was him against the world. Baz feels like it’s his job to bring him home.





	Times and Places

**Author's Note:**

> Something other than Marvel! Wow! 
> 
> This is a result of me putting off writing new chapters for my WIPs. Enjoy.
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This work is an original by JLMonroe1234 and has been posted STRICTLY to AO3. If you see it duplicated on any other platforms, please let me know so appropriate action can be taken. Thank you!

**BAZ**

Getting Snow to share a bed with me was difficult in the beginning. His original excuse was his wings; sometimes they pop when he sleeps. He said he didn’t want to unintentionally throw me onto the floor. Then I told him that wasn’t a problem, that I’d simply buy us a California King and space wouldn't be an issue. 

He still didn’t go for it. He kept saying it was his wings, and I kept calling him a stubborn git. It took me a while to realize he didn’t want to share a bed because growing up, he’d never had his own space. Those Homes he stayed at were packed like sardine cans. He’d likely shared everything he owned unwillingly for the first eleven years of his life. I recalled a time during sixth year when I’d complained about my Watford mattress.

_ “The feathers are old as centaur shit. They poke me.” _

_ Simon snorted. “There’s no springs poking me in the back, the cushion doesn’t smell of piss, and I have the whole thing to myself. This is the height of luxury.” _

So I stopped pushing. Gave him the time and space he needed to figure out what he was comfortable with, where his boundaries were. I slept on the sofa for almost a month after I moved in with him and Penny. On night 28 of having a crick in my neck from having my head pressed against the armrest (I’m too tall for the sofa, my feet dangle off the opposite end when I lie flat), Simon silently padded out of the bedroom, grabbed my hand, and tugged me to bed. It was the best night of sleep I’d gotten all month. 

The routine has stayed the same since; we sleep in the same bed, me at a respectable distance unless Snow is feeling particularly cuddly, and him facing me so he won’t throw me off the bed if his wings extend accidentally. It’s a good system.

I knew Simon had nightmares. We both did, actually, for the entirety of our stay at Watford and continually afterward. I assumed Simon’s had to do with his time at the Homes, as well as whatever was going on in his head regarding the death of the Mage. Mine were all swirling bits of fangs and blood and thirst, and occasionally of Snow. Hurt Snow. Sad Snow. Snow in any state but happy. Those dreams were almost as bad as the bloody ones. 

I’ve learned to tune out his groans and whimpers most of the time. I’ve gotten rather good at it, actually, thanks to years of practice, so I don’t usually wake up when he’s having his milder night terrors. 

That has nothing to do with my ability to sleep through my own nightmares, though. Several times a week I wake up in a cold sweat (always a _ cold _ sweat) huffing and panting and sometimes a bit thirsty. I can usually sneak out of the flat to hunt and then right back in afterward, all without Snow or Penelope waking. Of course, that only works if Simon’s not already awake.

On one particularly difficult evening, I’d managed to shut the front door and make my way up the stairs to the flat’s main level before I saw him, as well as _ smelled _ him, in the kitchen. Simon was standing in front of the open fridge with his right hand wrapped around his left wrist. There was blood dripping from the palm of his left hand and onto the kitchen floor, mixing with another dark liquid puddled there. It wasn’t blood. It smelled slightly sour and a bit fruity. 

“W-who?” Simon stuttered. He was in something of a state. The fridge light was bright enough to illuminate a bit of his face; he looked terrified. His blue eyes, dull in the dark of the kitchen, frantically skimmed the room, skimmed me. Snow looked like a deer in the headlights. 

“Snow? What in bloody hell are you doing bleeding all over the kitchen in the middle of the night? Spilling our best bottle of wine, no less.”

“I’m...Baz?”

I took a few tentative steps forward. “Snow? Is everything al-?” Something crunched under my trainer, and I realized there were bits of wine bottle scattered across the kitchen floor. Snow must have cut himself trying to pick up the pieces. 

My vision in the dark is better than that of the average young man, so I knew I wasn’t seeing things when a tear rolled down Snow’s cheek and hung onto the edge of his jaw. “Baz, I..._ I d-don’t know where I am.” _

My pathetic, useless heart managed to find a way to beat even less than usual. “You’re being serious? You really don’t know?”

He shook his head. His curls bounced over his forehead in a curtain of amber. I wanted to brush them away, but I knew any sudden movements would startle him. 

“I’m scared,” he said quietly, “I’m scared and I’m lost and I’m here but I’m not and I don’t know where we are and holy _ fuck _I can’t breathe, Baz-”

“All right, Snow, stop for a moment. Snow. Snow. _ Simon. _” That caught his attention. Using Simon’s first name isn’t something I do often, but it seemed to do the trick at the time. He was finally looking at me. The terror and confusion in his eyes was enough to almost make he wish he’d look away. “Tell me what you know.”

Simon sniffled and ran his hand under his nose. He hadn’t been paying attention, though, and used his bloody hand. Focusing on his eyes opposed to the deep red blood now smeared across the bottom half of his face was incredibly difficult. Simon’s blood had a very distinct scent; thick, buttery. Like melted brown sugar poured into a bowl of popcorn. Not unpleasant, but very potent. “What I know?” Simon asked.

I nodded. “What you know.” 

In typical Simon Snow fashion, he started off with something painfully simple: “I’m Simon Snow.” 

Not rolling my eyes was horribly difficult. “Yes. What else?” 

“You’re Baz.” 

“My last name, Snow.” 

“Pitch.”

I raised an eyebrow. 

“Grimm-Pitch.” 

I took a tentative step forward. Snow still had that frightened animal look in his eye, and I didn’t want to ruin the progress we’d made. I could hear his heartbeat; it seemed to be slowing. 

“Better. What are you doing in the kitchen, Simon?” 

Simon pivoted his neck and took in the scene around him. “This is the kitchen?” 

“Yes. What are you doing in here?” 

I already knew why he was in the kitchen. Snow was a notorious midnight-snacker. He was likely digging around in the fridge for the plate of leftover scones Penelope baked yesterday evening, then accidentally knocked the wine bottle out and onto the floor in the process. 

“_Whose _kitchen?” 

_ Fuck _ . That’s not what I wanted him focusing on. If he’s mentally where I think he is, he’s only going to panic more if I tell him whose kitchen we’re in. _ Our _ kitchen. Simon Snow and Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch’s kitchen. (And Penelope Bunce’s kitchen, but Bunce doesn’t count in this equation.) Mentally, Simon was back in seventh year. Back with his _ shaky sexuality, _back with the Humdrum. Back in the White Chapel’s tower with the Mage. 

And back with Eb. Eb, who was killed. Eb, whose body Simon had to see still and cold on the floor. If I tilted my head just right, in the midnight darkness of the kitchen, the puddle of wine mixed with Simon’s blood looked eerily similar to the one that pooled beneath Eb all those months ago. 

“You’re not there,” I said, ignoring his question. “Watford is miles away. The White Chapel is miles away. You’re not there. It’s just you and me, at home.” 

“Home.” Simon said the word so quietly, I knew I wouldn’t have heard him if my hearing wasn’t enhanced. He mouthed the word a few times. He seemed to be wrapping his head around the concept, as if it were foreign. 

Simon Snow had stayed in many Homes. None of those Homes were _ home, _though. He knew the difference. 

“Baz?” 

“Yes, Snow?” 

“You called me Simon before.” 

I huffed out a laugh that morphed into something I could only classify as a giggle. I pulled Simon away from the open fridge and into my arms. He smelled like butter and sugar and pine trees and _ Simon. _“You really gave me a fright, mate.” 

Simon nuzzled his nose into my shoulder. He must have forgotten about the blood on his hand, because I felt some of it soak into the back of my shirt. My gums pulsed around my fangs, wherever those were tucked away. I still didn’t know. 

“Simon, love, as much as I want to stay like this, I feel like I’m going to drain you dry. Maybe get that cleaned up?” I didn’t actually think I’d hurt him. I’d never hurt him. But the blood smelled just a tad too good, and I didn’t want to take any chances. 

“Yea. R-right.”

* * *

Simon always has to sleep with the windows open. That’s one of the major things about him that didn’t change after Watford, after everything; even without his magic, he runs way too warm. I love it. Merlin knows I’m always frigid. If I wrap myself around Simon (or he wraps himself around me, I don’t particularly care which) I almost feel like I belong with the living. It’s a mutually beneficial situation, too. I’m cold as death, so he uses me as his personal ice-block. Win-win. 

I distinctly remember falling asleep tonight in Simon’s arms. I was chilly, he was overheating. The usual. I’d said something along the lines of, “_ Must _we keep the windows open, Snow? It’s late fall. I’m chilled to the bone.” All Snow did was grunt and pull me toward his chest. 

I wasn’t complaining. 

But tonight was another nightmare night, and now I’m painfully awake, shivering in the breeze blowing through the drapes and into the bedroom. I blindly stretched an arm over to the other side of the bed, eyes still closed in a sorry attempt to hold onto whatever drowsiness remained. 

I gave up when I realized the sheets were cold. The sheets on Simon’s side of the bed, which usually stayed warm for several minutes even after he’d abandoned them. Meaning he hadn’t just gotten up to grab a snack or take a piss. 

“Snow?” I called out gently, sliding out of the bed to stand upright. I shivered when my toes touched the hardwood floor. I never slept in socks. “Snow? Where’ve you gone, now?” I’m especially glad Bunce isn’t home at the moment. She’d be chewing me out for hollering at Simon. “_ In the middle of the night, Basil? I have classes tomorrow! Keep quiet, for the love of Merlin-“ _

Bunce always spells her bedroom door shut when she leaves the flat for any extended period of time, so I knew Simon wasn’t in there. The en-suite in our room was empty, as well as the loo in the hall. That leaves the kitchen and the sitting room, and I don’t see the fridge light from my place in the hall. There’s blueish light reflecting off the stainless steel of the fridge, though, so the telly must be on. 

“Snow?” I called again, not wanting to startle him if he didn’t hear me coming. I’m often more sneaky than I intend to be, so I’ve gotten into the habit of announcing my entrance into any possibly Simon Snow-occupied space. He startles like a deaf kitten. 

“N-no! Stay back!”

I was right; Snow was standing in the middle of the sitting room. The telly was switched on but the screen was all black and white and fuzzy, like he’d tried to turn it to a channel we don’t have. His back was facing the tv set so the light shone through his wings and around the edges of his silhouette. 

His hair was ruffled, probably from sleep. All of the curls on the right side of his head were mashed down from rubbing against his pillow. 

He was shirtless; he was almost always shirtless unless he was in public. A result of his overheating issue. 

His tail was sticking out the top of his pyjama pants. The pointy end was bobbing and swirling around like it always does when he gets nervous.

He looked like Satan Incarnate. 

There was a sword in his hand. I don’t know where he got it. Bunce forbade weapons of any kind the first day her and Snow moved into the flat. She said it was for her own safety, that she couldn’t sleep knowing there was “a bloody fucking _ sword _ tucked into the coat closet, Basil.” But her and I both knew Simon wasn’t a danger to any of _ us. _

That sword, the one I thought I’d sold to a common pawn shop (nothing about the weapon was inherently magickal, I wasn’t breaking any laws,) was gripped in Simon’s battle-calloused fingers. He must have bought it back without Bunce or I knowing. 

And it was pointed directly at me.

“Who?” Simon asked.

I tilted my head. “Speak clearly, Snow. You know I can’t comprehend gibberish. I’m too educated.”

“Who,” Simon spat out again, apparently trying to work up the courage to continue. “_ Who are you?” _

**SIMON**

The sword hilt was cold in my hand, somehow. My palm was sweating. The small area of back between my wings was sweating. My forehead was sweating. But the hilt stayed cold. 

“You’re not serious,” the dark haired man said. “Are you?”

I didn’t know if I _ was _serious, but I definitely felt it. 

The light from the telly seemed to make the guy’s skin glow. Poor bloke was pale as milk.

“Name. Just give me your name.”

“Baz.”

“Your name is _ Baz _?”

“Basilton.” Baz coughed like he was uncomfortable, but his face stayed neutral. “Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch. But you always call me Baz.” 

**BAZ**

He really doesn’t remember. He _ really _ doesn’t. Snow’s had amnesia episodes before, but this is the worst I’ve seen. 

“Baz.” His eyes stayed trained on me. Simon may not have his magic anymore, but he’s still got warrior instincts. No way he’s letting a threat out of his sight.

It broke my heart to realize that, that I was a threat to him. Back at Watford I’d tried as hard as possible to be a threat at all times. Now, the idea of making Simon uneasy made me sick.

“You’re a vampire.”

I laughed aloud, more out of nervousness than anything. He may have remembered I was a vampire, but if he didn’t remember I was friendly, he’d go from speaking to me to treating me like Public Enemy Number 1 in a matter of seconds. I’m fast and strong, but Snow’s trained and vicious as anything. I’d probably still have the upperhand in a fight, but I think he could do some serious damage. “Tactless as always, Snow. Cut and dry. Right to the point.”

“Tell me where I am.” 

“Your flat.” Not _ our _ flat. Not right now. He needs to feel in control. 

“My flat. Where’s that?”

“London.”

“Is anyone else here?” 

“No. Not at the moment. Just you and me.”

“You’re a vampire and you’re standing in my sitting room. Why haven’t you attacked me?”

“Because I’d never hurt you.” 

His sword hand dipped a little bit. I took a step forward. The sword came back up, but I didn’t waver, just kept approaching. Simon’s wings flapped. “Stop!” I didn’t stop. 

His spaded tail was aimed at me now, along with the sword. “Seriously, mate, give it a rest.”

One more step forward. The tip of the sword touched my sternum. I didn’t look down, but I knew there was a thin slice in the chest of my shirt. A shame, really. It’s one of the softest sleep shirts I own. 

“For the love of _ Merlin _, Baz, get the fuck away from me!”

“That’s just it, Simon.” I was too close. His tail was wrapped around my left calf. “I couldn’t get away from you if I wanted to.”

I had a hand wrapped around each bicep. Not enough to hurt or bruise, but enough to hold him in place. I could feel the muscles beneath his skin pull taught, but he didn’t pull away when I kissed him.

Because that’s what I knew it would take to bring him back from the brink. Just like he brought me back from the brink in the middle of a burning forest all those months ago. 

Except this time he wasn’t wearing a cross, and I could get as close as I needed. 

My lips moved against his for several moments. He didn’t respond. My heart dropped to my toes. _ It’s not working. He really doesn’t remember. He’s too far gone this time- _

I was focused enough on Snow, the smell of him, the feel of him, that I was startled when he dropped his sword and it clattered against the hardwood floor. The hand that had been holding it went over my shoulder and wrapped around the back of my neck. 

“_ Baz,” _ he whispered against my mouth once we stopped to breathe. Our foreheads were touching. “ _ Baz, Baz, Baz _.” 

“Glad you can remember a three letter word, Snow. I didn’t know you had it in you.” 

Snow huffed and put a hand on my chest, pushing me away a few centimeters so he could look me in the eyes. That was something I’d always admired about Simon; when he means business, he always makes direct eye contact. I don’t know if it’s his way of focusing himself or asserting his dominance or what. But it’s scary attractive. 

“So we’re in the flat,” he said.

“Yes.” 

“_Our _flat.” 

I smiled at that. “Yes. Our flat.” 

“We’re not…” he cleared his throat. He actually looked away for a second, so I knew he was struggling with whatever he was trying to say. “We’re not there. Or then.” 

I didn’t know which _ there or then _he was referring to. It could have been any one of the hundred horrible times and places Simon had been throughout his life. Lord knows there’s a lot of them. 

I put a hand to his cheek. His skin burned against my palm. “No. We’re not wherever or whenever you think we are.” 

The telly buzzed behind us as we stood in the middle of the room. I didn’t want to move just yet. Simon still had a haunted look on his face. I wanted to let him chase the demons away. 

I would pay any price to know exactly what’s going on in his head at any given moment. Simon Snow’s an enigma on a good day. On his worst days he was a storm, cloudy and rainy and for the most part unpredictable. 

Simon squeezes my forearm. “I don’t want to go back to bed.” 

“All right. That’s fine. We don’t have to.” 

“Can we just stay in here for a bit?” 

“Of course.” 

We backed up toward the sofa. I sat carefully on the middle cushion and Simon, in true Simon fashion, forgot about his wings and crunched himself uncomfortably between me and the backrest. 

“For the love of Merlin, Snow.” I scooted to the opposite end of the sofa. Simon laid flat on his stomach with his head in my lap, his cheek against the thigh of my pyjamas. 

“I’m sorry,” Simon said gently. 

“Nothing to apologize for.”

Simon’s hair felt soft as my fingers worked through it. It was already a mess, there was no harm in me fucking it up some more. 

“And thank you.” 

I didn’t respond for a moment, just listened to his heartbeat for a few minutes as it slowed and his breathing evened out. 

“Always, Simon.”   
  



End file.
